


I am a stranger to kindness

by psychomachia



Category: Welcome to the Punch (2013)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: Nothing happens the way Max expects it to.
Relationships: Max Lewinsky/Jacob Sternwood
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	I am a stranger to kindness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crescent_gaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescent_gaia/gifts).



People are always tricky buggers. Just when you think you can predict what they're going to do, because it makes perfect fucking sense and helps them out the most, they go and do something insane.

He's sitting it in a metal chair right now, thinking about it. Because as far as he could tell, there was one of two ways this was going to go.

There was always the possibility they'd just shoot him then and there. Conspiracy closed, all bent coppers dead, and only one loose end they'd need to pursue.

Unlikely, though, since the one man that would most likely find that loose end was standing in front of them, hands in the air. So another possibility – prison with a high security ranking, maybe a few CIB3 stopping by to ask him some very pointed questions with answers that would never make it public.

But that's a risk as well.

“Look,” the one in glasses says. He calls himself John, which is a sure tell it's not his name. “It's a bloody mess. You've got a dead commander involved in an illicit gun running op, a PMC denying any responsibility, and a media that's just itching to get their hands on this.”

“Right,” Max says. It's all abbreviations with these fuckers. He's got his hands free for the moment, but they can easily slap the cuffs back on, cart him away, and lock him up.

John sighs, rubs his eyes. “So it'd be best for you to take a leave for a while until we figure out how to deal with this lot.”

Max blinks. Clearly, the first option happened after all and he's dead, having a final hallucination that they're cutting him loose rather than hanging him out to dry.

“Keep your mouth shut, don't see any of your old mates, and for God's sake, if you hear anything about Sternwood, you let us know, right?” 'Mary' snaps her mobile shut, pockets it. “Don't make us regret giving you this reprieve.”

So they're not caging him, but they still have him on a leash.

* * *

He's not going back to his flat.

Sarah's dead, still. Nothing's going to bring her back and sitting in the dark there, smoking and drinking until he passes out is just going to make him realize just how much he fucked this all up.

Max just walks for a bit, breathes in the fresh air he hasn't smelled in days, and stops when his knee reminds him Sternwood's still able to fuck him over even when he's not there. He sits on a bench, massages it with his good arm, thinks what the fuck he's going to do now.

Assuming it all sorts itself out and he manages not to end up on the chopping block or behind bars, what does he do? He wouldn't put it past the Met to promote him out of trouble, make up some excuse why they need him behind a desk, out of trouble and anything more exciting than signing off on a report. He's a drugged cripple with a trail of bodies behind him – they're not going to risk him getting involved in anything serious again.

So quit? Let them bury him in a nice cushy disability pension and then what? Turn old before his time, sitting on this same bench, feeding pigeons and thinking about the past, while he lets the world go by and assholes bury more secrets and bodies under politically convenient lies.

Fuck. He buries his head in his hands.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

There's a girl on a scooter, yellow jacket, holding a package. “Mr. Max Lewinsky?”

Max blinks. “Yes?”

“Oh, good,” she says. “I was hoping I'd catch up to you. I was supposed to deliver this to your flat but one of your friends said you were here instead.”

He didn't make DI by being stupid, so he takes the package, signs for it, and wonders what fresh hell he's been dragged into.

The phone starts ringing as it drops on his lap.

“Motherfucker,” he says, and picks it up.

* * *

“Max.”

It's Sternwood, as smooth and cool as ever, because the only time Max has ever seen him ruffled was—well, there was a good reason for that, wasn't there? Ruan and Sarah, and the two assholes that ruined their lives.

“Sternwood,” he says.

“Please, after all we've been through. Jacob.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Fine, Jacob. You know there's a couple of people that would love me to turn this over right now.”

Sternwood sounds amused. “You think either one of these phones is traceable? Give me more credit, Max.”

“Fine,” Max snaps. “What the hell are you doing calling me? Shouldn't you be on a plane to Iceland or something?”

“Thought about it.” The laughter disappears. “Not like there's anything here for me anymore, is there Max?”

Oh, and that hurts as much as the fucking knee right now because Sternwood was there with him when they saw the gurney, saw Max collapse in the van, fucking—yeah, there's nothing there. “Guess not,” he manages to say. “Called to tell me that?”

“I called to check on you,” Sternwood says. “I was worried you might be foolish enough to take the blame for all of this mess.”

Max snorts. “Would have suited you fine, right? No loose ends here anymore.”

“Oh, Max,” Sternwood says and the fucker sounds fond. “You'll always be a loose end. But I am pleased you made this easier for me. Do you know how hard it would have been to break you out of prison?”

“What the--”

And right on cue, a dark car pulls up. The window lowers.

The good news is that it's not Sternwood.

That's about it.

“Get in the back, Max.”

He'd tell Sternwood to fuck off, but there's something about a gun pointed discretely out a window that makes you want to comply. He wouldn't put it past him to shoot his other knee, then have him dragged, bleeding and cursing into the backseat.

He gets in.

* * *

“Fuck you,” Max says.

Sternwood's smirking at him. It's been a long, boring drive, though that fucker had the decency to leave a syringe in the car so he could keep his knee from exploding. No alcohol, though, and the driver didn't talk the entire time.

“Did you miss me?”

“Like I miss a bullet in my knee.”

He's laughing, walking over to Max and getting very close to him. Unreasonably close. “Max, you still haven't gotten over that?”

“Not when it reminds me you on a painful daily basis.”

But Sternwood's just staring at him, and it's a genuine smile. “I'm glad you're all right.”

Max is creeped out just a bit. He's used to Sternwood's anger, to his sympathy, to his grudging support, but he's not used to his friendship?

“So why I am here?” he asks instead. “You could be on the run right now. You know the longer you stay here, the more likely you are to get caught.”

“Well,” Sternwood says thoughtfully, sitting down on a leather chair. “I thought you might go with me on a little holiday. Or would you rather spend the rest of your life hoping that the good graces of the Met keep your leash nice and loose?”

Max blinks. “I hate you,” he says.

“Really?'

“Yes.” He crosses his arms. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“That's a shame,” Sternwood says. “I guess we're both going to be staying here for a while.”

Of course.

* * *

It turns out Sternwood doesn't have to keep him handcuffed or anything to make him stay.

All it takes is confiscating his phone, reminding him that it would be a very long walk towards anyone else, and Max really wanting to figure out what Sternwood's game. He's an idiot, but Sternwood has to be up to something, and his brain needs something. He's bored with the weeks of isolation waiting for someone to believe him, the knowledge that he'll never be allowed to hold his job again, and the growing realization that the only one who can understand what he's gone through is cooking him eggs for breakfast.

“Scrambled,” Sternwood says. “We'll do soft-boiled tomorrow.”

“What do you get out of this?” he asks.

“A good breakfast is important in the day.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Why would you want me to come with you? You hate me.”

“You know I don't, Max. Not after everything that's happened.”

“Fine.” Max slouches a little in the chair. “So you think we're friends now.”

“I didn't say that either.”

“Then what?” He's starting to raise his voice. “You want a travel buddy? A bodyguard? Someone to talk to about just how fucked up everything is right now?”

“Eat your eggs,” Sternwood says. “They're getting cold.

He does.

* * *

It repeats.

Each day, Sternwood refuses to give him answers, refuses to let him see his phone, just smiles at him with that same cool fondness, like he thinks Max is just ever so precious for yelling at him or threatening him with a butter knife.

He takes phone calls he doesn't let Max hear, leaves for hours at a time and returns with food, with clothing, once with a locked briefcase he let Max see before calmly hiding it somewhere he hasn't been able to find, that fucker.

And each day, Max's patience ebbs away, leaving him frustrated, angry, vaguely concerned that perhaps this will be the day that the Met realizes they've made a terrible mistake in trusting him to not immediately get himself into trouble and decide the best way to handle it is to lock him up.

They don't come, though. No one does.

Just him and Sternwood, day after day, until it must be at least two weeks.

“I'm thinking dippy eggs and soldiers today,” he says and Max lunges for him.

He tackles Sternwood, wrestles him to the ground, and Sternwood lets him, smiles at Max's hands wrapped around his throat.

“You'd prefer Scotch eggs instead?”

“What I want for you is to shut up!” Max's knee is screaming at him, but he pushes through it, ignores the pain to inflict more on the man that caused it.

“You know I'm not going to do that,” Sternwood says and neatly flips him over in a irritatingly acrobatic move. Max's hands drop, pinned beneath him now, heat and strength holding him tight, and Sternwood is bending low, smirking--

He'd like to say that Sternwood was the one that took the initiative, but truth is a rare commodity these days and he knows damn well he was the one that lunged up, wanting to wipe that smile off, make Sternwood bleed.

They both do, in the end. It's only fair.

* * *

Five minutes later, Max panics.

Of course he does.

He doesn't show it, waits for Sternwood to leave him alone, makes up some excuse about needing to rest and the asshole nods. When he hears Sternwood's car leave, that's when he makes his escape.

It's a cold day out, foggy, and the road is slippery. There's no one else on the road, so he has no idea where Sternwood could have possibly dug up a remote country house to hide in, but let's face it, he thinks, the man always had escape routes.

Max does too.

He'll find his way back to England, throw himself on the mercy of the Met, and agree to all of their terms. He'll sit at a desk, smile at the trainees as he stamps their paperwork, and try not to think about Sternwood kissing him.

Or kissing him back.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Why the hell did he do that? He hates Sternwood.

Well, maybe not anymore. But he definitely loathed him once upon a time, and now--

It was the adrenaline, he thinks. Pure and simple. Nothing more.

Except—isn't it always that with them?

They're always chasing each other, fighting each other, trying to get the final victory over the other one. When did that stop mattering? When did it turn into Sternwood playing happy homemaker and Max getting queasy at the thought of going back to London and turning him in?

It's just because he owes him, right?

But really, Sternwood owes him. He let him run, was ready to take the blame for everything that happened, and instead the universe threw him a rope and told him to figure out how he wanted to use it.

He doesn't like Sternwood.

No.

“Fuck,” he screams, and that's when his foot slips on a wet patch of leaves on the road, because he's jus the type of stupid bugger to meet his downfall completely by his own hands.

He catches himself on the road, rocks digging into his hands. They're scraped, raw, and he's clenching his teeth, trying to suck back the pain, the tears that are falling.

There's the sound of a motor rumbling in the distance, and he closes his eyes.

It could be anyone – a tourist coming to check out the sights, a delivery driver making his run, the bloody full might of the Met arriving to gun them all down.

But he knows it's not.

The car stops. The door opens.

There's footsteps behind him.

“You really don't know how to stay out of trouble, do you?”

Max's hand reaches up, take Sternwood's own, and lets the man bear his weight. There's a warm breath on his hair, and if that fucker is kissing the top of his head--

Perhaps a holiday might be nice.

* * *

Back in the house, it's all Max can do to not let Sternwood rip his shirt off. The fucker's already ruined most of Max's life, the least he could do was let him keep a bit of his kit.

“I'll just buy you another one,” Sternwood says.

“That's not the point.” Max has his hand down the man's pants and of course, he's hard, ready to go. It always seems like Sternwood's two steps ahead of him. At least when he goes with him now, he'll be able to keep an eye on that bastard. “The point is that you don't listen to anything I say.”

“I listen to everything you say, Max.” Sternwood begins mouthing down his neck, nipping here and there. Max hits him in the arm, and he takes his mouth away, grinning. “I just don't feel I need to listen to it if it's particularly daft.”

“Shut up,” he says, because it's stupid and what else is he going to say when Sternwood's just pushed his pants down, leaving him exposed and needy. He wraps his hand around Max's cock, working it out like he's doing Max a favor, freeing him from things like clothing and repression and living by society's laws. “I don't even know why I'm doing this.”

“Because you like me.” Sternwood's too good at this, too talented at manipulating Max into doing what he wants and if he thinks he can get Max to say he loves him just because he's giving Max an amazing hand job, he's fucking insane.

So instead, Max responds by stroking Sternwood, watches him squirm for a change. If this has a chance in hell of working, it's going to have to be somewhat of an equal partnership. Max may not know the ins and outs of the criminal underworld, is going to have to rely on him for shit, but if Sternwood doesn't want to be stalking around glaciers by himself, Max is going to be making a few decisions of his own. Starting with--

“We're not going to Iceland,” Max says. “It's way too fucking cold there.”

“Of course not, Max.” Sternwood kisses him again, this time not letting Max up until they're both about ready to gasp for air. He lets his hand rub Max harder, lets Max do the same to him and waits until they're both about to come, before he leans close and whispers in Max's ear.

“I already bought our tickets for Finland.”

Always two fucking steps ahead.

* * *

The phone rings in the middle of the night. Only one ring and it's answered quickly.

“Please tell me we'll finally be rid of you.”

Sternwood chuckles softly, not loud enough to wake Max, who's sleeping the sleep of the well-fucked and completely oblivious. “I told you he's stubborn, But yes, we're leaving tomorrow.”

“Don't come back,” Mary says. “We mean it. You or your boy come back here, we're going to have problems.”

“Are you telling me you didn't figure out how to spin this? I'm beginning to think that you aren't very good at your job?”

“Geiger's going down as a dirty cop working with rogue elements of Kincade. They're very sorry, clearing house and all that, and will refocus their efforts in the Middle East. The Met also regrets the harm that corruption in their ranks has caused and will be more vigilant to root it out.”

“By giving you a higher budget?”

“I'll tell John you send your regards. Stay out of trouble, or at least get into it in a country that doesn't have extradition.”

Sternwood hangs up, drops the phone in the trashcan. It'll be disposed of when he leaves, a remnant of something that no longer matters.

He kisses Max on the temple, slides smoothly into bed next to him.

“Well, that's it,” he says quietly, knowing Max won't wake until morning, bleary-eyed and stumbling around. They'll be on a plane five hours later and out of this country before the next dawn.

There's nothing left for them here.


End file.
